


Un-botching the Job

by angwe



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angwe/pseuds/angwe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mood-piece character-study-type-thing for Colonel Sebastian Moran in my cyberpunk!Sherlock universe. This is probably not something that will actually be a part of A Study in Cerulean.</p><p>Moran's shot doesn't go off correctly (not his fault), so corrections must be made.</p><p>Recommended Sountrack: “Velvet Acid Christ Radio” from Pandora: http://broadcaster.pandora.com/t?r=927&c=901946&l=37961&ctl=325E4A5:FC2FA1ACD2EED566C551C921BC1BDBA3050542759970026E&</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un-botching the Job

_  
Fucking hell. The bullet was supposed to sever the spinal column. That twitch is going to give it away. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.   
_   
The overlay flickered, suddenly he could see the body again in both eyes.   
_One._   
There was now a 35.2% chance that the fraying nerve damage the nano-width bullet wasn’t supposed to do…   
_Two._   
…would cause a muscle in the victim’s face to twitch unnaturally.   
_Three._   
He wouldn’t know for sure which way his luck was going.   
_Four._   
Until five seconds had passed. One more.   
_Twitch-five. Bloody double-fuck._   
“Clean-up. Aisle 5.” Moran didn’t actually utter the words, but the though process was enough to trigger the cranial implant to awaken, transmit, and shut down. The signal would last a millisecond. Enough to alert the unit back in the motorcycle, but also enough to trigger at least three of the alarm systems in this particular office unit.   
Thankfully, the clean-up would be happening three blocks away, where his victim was now motionless. Unfortunately, a security camera had picked up that twitch, and now it was a combat-hack job.   
Popping his extra eye-piece back in and activating the secondary scrambler camo, the gun was strapped down and the air screamed around him. Six stories wasn’t so bad, the carbon-fiber would need testing, but he was due for a checkup anyway.   
_Tuck. Roll. Seventeen steps. Half-jump._   
There was a bit of optical interference as he passed through the virtual wall, but the attack barriers in his software blew it all apart.   
_Adjust the throttle for the new curve that battery of security ports is going to present._   
Pulling the schematic up on the left eye, one thought process adjusted the inbound route for maximum speed with minimum conflict. The other was engaged in tuning the battery-matrix on the thrusters. Half-seconds would matter, and the turn was coming up.   
_Drop speed. Release smoke-decoy. Draw blade._   
Others might try some kind of suicide run. Why? Smoke to confuse the laser sensors, the camo and the bike’s own jammer would be obviating the radar and microwave. The only thing left was the turrets themselves.   
_Gun the throttle. Engage the battery-matrix. Sword out, forward, and down. Duck, cut, and run._   
The sounds of precisely crossed lines of fire nearly deafened him, but there was nothing but blissful silence here below, the gentle nudge against his hand the only resistance as he sliced the gun barrels off. These were overly-designed, high-precision weapons, and would kick into a non-firing safety mode if damaged like this. If this building were likely to be attacked, half of them would be a cheaper grade that didn’t mind blowing itself apart and would just keep spraying. Insurance companies are paranoid, but terribly self-preservational.   
_Getting in on the other side is going to be a bitch._   
NEW COURSE PLOTTED   
“Well give it to me then.”   
_Clunky damn interface._   
He’d wanted to pay them more or improve it himself, but they assured him the processing speed and accuracy left no room for anything other than subvocal commands. He’d have to ask Jim if he knew of anyone better the next time they met.   
_He’ll take it out of me for asking._   
There was a part of him that might not mind that.   
_Not now._   
The commercial block was now far behind him. The blade had disappeared back into his outfit. Stats on the target scrolled past his right eye, while the map ran over his left. He would be there in two seconds. Route memorized.   
_Need it clear._   
Stats memorized.   
_I hate clean-up. Should have been a clean shot._   
Right hand swiped the eye-pieces out of their sockets. Mirrored lenses dropped into place. In a pinch, they could be rear-projected onto. The pieces were just faster.   
_Upgrades. Always more upgrades._   
The defense shields lunged at him far earlier than any physical conflict. The bike threw up its attack barriers and he was through.   
_Those were cheapies. That’s just for show._   
They were expensive cheapies though. Designed and engineered to the extreme to present deadliness embodied.   
_Money doesn’t buy everything, but it looks like it does. And sometimes, it can convince everything._   
The next wave hit him at the same time the snipers tried to.   
_Security is already on high alert. They_   
really   
_saw that twitch. Bloody triple-fuck._   
Fwip. Fwip. Two shots wide to either side. Thock-thock-thock. Three into the concrete, throwing dust.   
_There should be four more._   
The sound was almost unified. He knew they were the best, and they didn’t disappoint. Unfortunately, he’d already reverse hacked the targeting enhancers and they aimed three centimeters too high.   
_Drop two charges left and right, fire compression pin in left leg on the jump, throw smoke high, throw fragmentation low._   
Crossing his arms and activating the sonic-boom device in the elbow, he crashed through the window on the third floor, despite the hardened poly-glass.   
_There’ll be a bruise tomorrow. Another thing for Jim to gloat over._   
Light pistols out of under-shoulder holsters, fired three times in rapid succession. No movement of the head, locked on the ultimate target, but two cameras and four security personnel were out of commission.   
_Faster._   
Molecular triggers fired and suddenly there were extra muscles pulling in his legs. Adjusting his center of gravity, a desk became a launching platform.   
_Three. Two. One._   
The impact with the reinforced barricade probably should have fried both his body and his neuralware, but both were protected with the highest quality and lowest legality. A lethal combination, even to the datawall in an arms manufacturer’s building.   
_Five more steps. Two left._   
Two more shots were fired into the nearly invisible eyes of the secondary surveillance system.   
_Nineteen. Turn right. Shit._   
Slapping the pistols together so their interlink engaged, Moran dropped his left hand back for the short-sword. Driving it deep into the socket in one fluid motion, he felt the familiar click as the anti-shock circuit kicked in dissipating the lethal charge into the nearest piece of computer equipment.   
_Some marketing schmuck is going to have a hell of a time tomorrow._   
The sword slid back and the pistols were aimed in one fluid motion. Five shots.   
_I have to risk it._   
He re-engaged one semi-idle neural circuit, checked the defense perimeter, and shouldered open the door.   
_Back to countermeasures._   
Now it was all wetwork and wires.   
_Five charges, left and right. 2 second delay._   
The first bullet pulverized the mostly-for-show helmet, and the head within, of the first security guard. Two more went down. The motion blurs in his enhanced eyes betrayed four in thermoptic camo. Insanely bright flashes send them into a whirl right as his switched off.   
_Sitting ducks._   
Eighteen bullets, three explosions, and one more piston-fired jump saw him out the east windows, landing next to the bike that hadn’t been able to track him, but knew his exit route already.   
_Image data wiped. System backup stymied. One bruised ulna. Jim’s going to laugh that I consider this a botched job. Asshole._


End file.
